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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23629963">i wake up falling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmfoothills/pseuds/warmfoothills'>warmfoothills</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friends to Lovers, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Pining, a truly abysmal attempt at being “just friends”, a very loose grasp of the science behind space travel, break-up and reconciliation, except more like friends to lovers to friends to question mark to morons to lovers again, look draco’s an astronaut and i don’t remember anything from physics class, ms joanne technology-and-magic-don’t-mix rowling? I don’t know her, non-linear timeline, not necessarily in that order, oh and of course, sci-fi movie references, space, we’re not going for realism here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:34:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,199</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23629963</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmfoothills/pseuds/warmfoothills</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco’s always leaving, one way or another. Harry’s usually 240 thousand miles too late.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>415</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i wake up falling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i thought, given current circumstances, now might be a good time to finish some of the hundreds of wips sitting in my google docs but it was my birthday last week so i ignored them all and wrote this instead. title is from me &amp; my dog by boygenius. as the self-proclaimed number one phoebe bridgers fan i’m frankly amazed it’s taken me this long to steal her lyrics for a fic. anyway…. On with whatever this is xx</p>
<p>(also: small emetophobia warning, nothing graphic but it’s in there, just fyi)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thing about saying goodbye to Draco so that he can go and climb aboard a rocket and get flung into space, Harry’s learned, is that it doesn’t get any easier, no matter how many times he has to do it.</p>
<p>“Harry,” Draco says into his hair, when Harry shows no signs of letting him out of the circle of his arms anytime soon. “They’ll quite literally launch the thing without me.”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t let go. “They won’t.”</p>
<p>Draco laughs and it echoes up and off the walls of the hangar. “No, they won’t. But you <em> will </em>be responsible for thousands of galleons worth of delay compensation if I make them wait any longer.”</p>
<p>“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry grumbles, backs off a bit, just enough that his face isn’t pressed to Draco’s collarbone anymore and he can look at him. “A few more minutes won’t kill them.”</p>
<p>“Twat,” Draco says, fond. “You know that only works in England.”</p>
<p>It’s usually busy in here, the huge, cavernous space filled with people shouting and casting and working on intricate bits of machinery, but for now, they’re alone. Everyone’s outside, ready for the lift-off Draco’s supposed to be out there orchestrating.</p>
<p>“Seven months,” says Draco, like Harry needs reminding. “It’ll almost be Christmas by then, we can go to that winter pop-up in Hoxton that you like.”</p>
<p>Harry smiles in spite of himself. “It’s a date.”</p>
<p>He finally lets go, because he has to.</p>
<p>Draco steps back, out of arm's reach, but doesn’t turn to leave yet. “Hey,” he says. “I love you”</p>
<p>Harry feels his smile split wider, makes a gross sniffing noise and wraps his arms around himself. “I know.” And then, because Draco won’t get the reference (his literal job is in space and he <em> still </em>hasn’t seen Star Wars): “Love you.”</p>
<p>“Love <em> you</em>,” Draco says again, like it’s a competition, like he needs to get it out now as many times as he can before they’re miles apart, and walks out into the Florida sun.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The way Harry tells it, it all started because Draco lived on the ground floor. The building where Harry lives in Blackheath is hardly a tower block, no more than a handful of storeys, but his flat’s right at the top and it has a view of the park, the observatory visible from the front windows, and he has sole access to the shitty little roof terrace. It’s why Draco started coming over in the first place, why he ended up leaving his telescope and various other, less easily identified instruments shoved in a corner next to the few chairs Harry had bothered to set up there.</p>
<p>“How they expect us to learn anything,” Draco would say, when it would start raining and he and Harry would have to cart all the equipment inside to clutter up the spare bedroom instead, “when the light pollution is this bad and most students can’t afford a place with <em> windows</em>, let alone far enough out of the city to get clear skies, and they shut the fucking campus observatory at 9pm like they’re actively <em> trying </em> to be stupid—”</p>
<p>Harry had thought it a little strange that a central university like the one Draco attended even offered this kind of subject, considering the obvious pitfalls of trying to star-gaze from the middle of a city that never turned its lights all the way off, but he let Draco complain anyway, let him keep coming over and brought him cups of tea sometimes, when it was stupid o’clock in the morning and he was still out there, shivering, eye pressed to the telescope. His course was a complicated mix of Muggle sciences and astronomy that Harry didn’t even try to understand, his time split between physics lectures and arithmancy classes and a three-hour Advanced Experimental Charms tutorial on Tuesday afternoons that Harry was pretty sure was taught by an Unspeakable, the way Draco steadfastly avoided talking about it.</p>
<p>It was an easy enough arrangement. Harry wasn’t actually using the terrace, and Draco wasn’t any bother, even if Harry sometimes had to stumble about his flat in the dark because Draco had turned all the lights off to stop them interfering with his readings.</p>
<p>In truth, he made for a strangely comforting presence. Harry liked living alone but it was nice all the same, on nights when he couldn’t sleep, to know he only had to push open the door off the landing to see Draco, muttering to himself about cloud coverage or the incessant annoyance of aeroplanes always throwing off his charts.</p>
<p>They’d interacted a bit during their repeat year at Hogwarts, everyone too exhausted by the overwhelming memories of the war to keep up old grudges any longer, but Harry had been busy figuring out how to convert his magical qualifications into A-Levels so that he could start teacher training when he left and Draco had practically lived in the library, trying to pass the obscene number of NEWT classes he was taking, more even than Hermione. It wasn’t until he was on Harry’s roof almost every night that Harry even started to think of him as a friend.</p>
<p>And from there, well. There were only so many midnight chats under the stars, blankets pulled tight against the freezing city air, that you could have with someone before you started noticing the way your pulse reacted to the sight of them in the moonlight probably meant something.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The kids Harry teaches think it’s the coolest thing in the world that he’s friends with an astronaut. He can’t tell them much — it’s a Muggle primary and the department that Draco works for is technically a secret, even to the general wizarding population — but they don’t seem to care. They get so excited that he spends way longer than he should on their module about the solar system, letting them build little papier-mâché planets and tin-foil spaceships until the classroom’s covered in crepe paper and glitter.</p>
<p>He finds it hard sometimes, not being able to share this whole other part of his life with them, if only because he knows how happy even the simplest of charms would make them, how big their eyes would get if he levitated their carefully constructed models and sent them spinning through the air in their own little orbits. But rules are rules (someone from the Improper Use of Magic office had actually made him <em> sign </em>something when he’d qualified, promising he wouldn’t breach the Statute) and Harry wouldn’t do anything to risk his job. He can’t see himself doing anything else and schooling pre-Hogwarts still isn’t a thing for most wizarding families, so this is where he’ll be, for as long as they’ll let him.</p>
<p>Draco laughs, distorted but familiar, when Harry tells him all the kids call him “Mr. Potter’s Spaceman Friend”. They’re catching up for the first time in weeks on one of their allotted eternally-too-short video calls. The communication technology is still developmental and the ground station in Merritt Island is the only place connected to Draco’s shuttle, so Harry has to Floo and have them push a screen up to the fireplace on their end and even then, they only get ten minutes or so every couple of months. It would be better to just go there, cut out the middleman, but he has a job, he can’t Portkey off to America every time he feels lonely.</p>
<p>Besides, he should be grateful they even get this. He’s pretty sure it’s usually reserved for family members, but seeing as Draco’s not married and wouldn’t talk to his parents even if they were living next door, they must have made an exception.</p>
<p>“Mr. Potter?” Draco asks, teasing, and Harry can see the way his eyes darken even through the poor connection.</p>
<p>“Don’t start,” he says, fond. Phone sex is so completely not an option that it’s not even funny. “It just makes me think of school. <em> Snape </em> used to call me that.”</p>
<p>Draco laughs again, leaning into the camera a little.</p>
<p>“I miss you,” Harry says, wishing he could reach an arm through the Floo and touch Draco’s cheek, even if it would only really be the cold screen of the monitor under his fingers.</p>
<p>Draco’s expression is soft. Their time’s almost up. “Me too,” he says. “Miss you.”</p>
<p>When he’s gone, when the screen’s gone dark and Harry’s pulled his head back out of his fireplace, he sits on the rug with his chin on his knees and thinks about how inescapably unfair the whole situation is.</p>
<p>Because there’s long distance, there’s here, London, Harry’s job and his flat and his friends and there’s the US, on the other side of the world and then there’s <em> long fucking distance</em>, there’s Draco an unimaginable number of miles away, not even on the same planet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Whenever Draco comes home to visit (and Harry shouldn’t call it that; London’s not Draco’s home anymore, not really), he stays with Harry. They never actually have a conversation about it, but Draco had only been renting whilst he studied, so he doesn’t have a place of his own to come back to. It would be pointless, when he’s only in the country a couple of times a year. All the friends Draco has here live in or around the city, there’s a veritable list of people who would happily put him up, but the first visit after he moves Harry meets him at the International Portkey Office and takes him back to his without thinking about it.</p>
<p>He goes to the market beforehand, picks up fresh pasta and chooses tomatoes with the kind of dizzy anticipation that’s infectious, has all the stall-holders smiling back at him. He could apparate back to his flat and dump the shopping but he’s impatient and he just goes straight there, walks to Westminster in the October chill. Draco hugs him so fiercely that the basil plant he’d bought on a whim gets a bit squashed.</p>
<p>It’s borderline ridiculous how much warmer the flat feels with Draco in it, like it’s been missing something all the time he was away, even though he’s never actually lived there. He talks a mile a minute while Harry’s chopping and sautéing, sitting on the kitchen counter, his foot making contact with Harry’s thigh every now and then as he swings his legs.</p>
<p>They only have a week, so they don’t waste any time. Draco drags him out on walks, relishing the sharp sweetness of autumn after so long in the season-less, weathervoid darkness of space and it’s half term, so they take Teddy to the Science Museum, go flying in Richmond Park, spend an afternoon cutting out strings of bats and paper cobwebs for Harry to decorate his classroom with when school resumes.</p>
<p>Draco sees other people too, Greg and Pansy and Blaise and friends from uni who bitch good-naturedly at him for being the one who made it, the one who’s living the dream halfway across the world, but he always comes back to Harry’s before long, breathless with cold and laughter.</p>
<p>All the rest of the time they spend in Harry’s bed, or the shower, or, the night before Draco has to leave, out on the roof terrace, pressed together in one rusted lawn chair. Draco in his lap is a warm barrier against the bite of the night air, his tongue in Harry’s mouth better than a shot of Firewhiskey for keeping the cold at bay as he gets Harry off with one hand, shuddering when Harry slips both of his own under Draco’s shirt and pulls him closer.</p>
<p>The next day, time’s run out.</p>
<p>Draco doesn’t have to leave until late, the Portkey scheduled for evening so that he has the whole day before he has to go back home. Harry cooks, makes a curry paste from scratch and gives Draco space to pack his things up. Once he’s finished though, there’s nothing left to do but leave it to simmer and wait for the rice to be done, so he goes in search of Draco.</p>
<p>He finds him standing on the bed in his socks, his bag packed neatly on the floor with his coat thrown over the top of it.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
<p>Draco stretches, his fingertips brushing the ceiling, then shrugs, lets his legs fold under him and collapses back onto the bed with a small bounce.</p>
<p>“Food’s about ready,” Harry says, chest warm when Draco smiles, easy and sweet, and gets up to follow him downstairs.</p>
<p>They decide not to go to the Portkey office together. It’s easier for Draco to Floo straight there, and it’ll be easier too, they agree by some implicit understanding, to say goodbye in the familiar comfort of Harry’s living room.</p>
<p>Draco spends a long time kissing him goodbye. They stand on the rug in front of the fireplace and Harry closes his eyes so he won’t look at the clock above the mantelpiece and licks the taste of wine and chilli and lemongrass right out of Draco’s compliant mouth. Draco tugs him backwards when it’s time, not releasing his hold on the front of Harry’s jumper until the flames are green and he’s mumbled the address for the Portkey office into Harry’s chin. Then he’s gone, spinning away, one of Harry’s hoodie cords left swinging in the space where his hand had been.</p>
<p>Harry goes out to the roof, unable to face his empty bed just yet. The clouds are thick and dark, obscuring the stars. He watches the blinking light of a plane track its way across the sky and imagines Draco’s on it, imagines he has a tangible way of watching Draco get further and further away, instead of this raw, expectant edge in his chest.</p>
<p>When he finally heads inside to sleep, he finds his bedroom ceiling lit up, covered all over in glow-in-the-dark stars. If he cries a little bit, thinking about Draco standing on the bed, casting the same sticking charm over and over, he decides that’s ok. There’s no one there to see him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are a lot of ways to make the separation easier, and renting <em> Armageddon </em>on VHS from the newsagents on the corner is definitely not one of them.</p>
<p>“Harry, really,” Hermione reprimands with a sigh when she comes over and finds him on the sofa, all the lights off and Harry already on his second re-watch of the afternoon.</p>
<p>She’s brought Maltesers with her, though, and doesn’t try to take the remote from him once she’s toed off her shoes and stolen half his blanket, so Harry can’t really complain.</p>
<p>They watch Bruce Willis in silence for several minutes.</p>
<p>“At least we’ve moved on from the <em> Wrath of Khan </em> phase,” Hermione says. “If I had to watch that scene in the engine room one more time—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The wedding is in the first week of September, that brief, heady stretch of days where summer hangs around past when it should, everything sticky and slow, burnished gold. Harry’s the happiest he’s ever been, but the loneliness that sits all over his body like a second skin has also never felt heavier.</p>
<p>“Do we really have to have your Aunt Muriel there?” Hermione asks, sitting at their kitchen table whilst Harry and Ron play chess and pretend to be helping with the seating plan for the reception.</p>
<p>Ron snorts. “Unless you want to be written out of her will, yeah, ‘Mione, I’d say we do.” He nudges a bishop forward to smash one of Harry’s pawns.</p>
<p>Hermione huffs, twitching her notes out of the way of bits of flying chess-piece. “We don’t <em> need </em>her money, Ron, we’re perfectly comfortable in case you hadn’t noticed—” she mutters, but she waves her wand to rearrange some names.</p>
<p>Harry directs his castle forward and tries to ignore the odd number at the top table that keeps drawing his eyes like a magnet.</p>
<p>Draco’s friendly enough with Ron and Hermione to have been invited, but not close enough that he’ll take time off to fly back and attend. It’s an amicable, unspoken agreement between the three of them: Draco understood the sentiment behind the invitation, Ron and Hermione accepted the regrets he sent via return owl without surprise or offence. The whole thing’s very sensible and civilised, which only makes Harry feel worse about it. He wants to be selfish, to beg Draco to change his mind so that when he’s standing up there, watching his two best friends tie their lives to one another, he’ll have someone in the crowd to focus on, just in case the twinge of pain that’s been threatening to spark fierce and blue in his chest ever since he helped Ron choose an engagement ring starts to overwhelm him. Someone to dance with, to tell him that just because he’s best man for the bride <em> and </em>groom doesn’t mean his speech needs to be longer than the actual ceremony. Someone to remind him that yeah, things are changing, and that’s always going to feel shaky and sad at first, but it won’t last forever.</p>
<p>Instead, Harry sucks it up and loses at chess, lets Hermione seat him next to Ginny and Luna for the wedding breakfast.</p>
<p>He goes suit shopping alone. Every dressing room he stands in he’s torn between wondering what Draco would think, trying to channel his vastly superior sartorial knowledge and wishing someone would Obliviate any thoughts of blonde hair and soft, grey eyes right out of his head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The way <em>Draco</em> tells it, the start of the whole thing was Felix Walton’s fault. Harry never met Felix, a boy from one of Draco’s astrophysics classes that Draco was convinced was only there because he’d confused astronomy for astrology and ended up accidentally pursuing a career in magical space exploration instead of Divination, but he certainly <em> heard </em> enough about him, especially when he decided to go into uni with stomach flu and took out half the class just before their final assignments were due.</p>
<p>By that point, Draco was two years in, had been commandeering Harry’s roof for months — Harry had adjusted his wards to recognise him, even given him a key to the door at street level that took you right up to the terrace via the fire escape stairs without having to go through the flat. He still came through the flat most of the time, though. Harry had given him a key to that door, too.</p>
<p>Anyway, the point being, Draco’s always been a stubborn bastard. Probably even more so back then, when he still felt like he had something to prove, and he wasn’t about to let a little thing like having to run inside every ten minutes to throw up in Harry’s bathroom stop him from finishing the year.</p>
<p>Harry should have sent him home, or at least given him a bucket and told him to stay out on the terrace. He’d been teaching year six at the time; if he got sick his class would be stuck with a substitute for their final weeks before summer, after which they’d be making the transition to secondary school. He hadn’t wanted to do that to them.</p>
<p>But he also hadn’t been able to tell Draco to leave, not when he knew how desperately he wanted his degree. So it really had been Felix’s fault that they ended up sitting on the bathroom floor at 3am, Draco’s forehead pressed to the cool lip of the bath, the charts he’d been mapping — as finished as he could get them in his current state — in a pile just outside the door, Harry trying to get him to drink some ginger ale and keep some crackers down. </p>
<p>It was, objectively, pretty disgusting when he’d sat up and kissed Harry, even though he cast three different breath-freshening charms and only tasted like spearmint and ginger. Unhygienic, at the very least, but Harry hadn’t been able to bring himself to care.</p>
<p>He’d gotten sick three days later. Draco dragged himself into the library to submit his assignments because neither of them owned a computer and then he’d come straight back to Harry’s and made him eat some plain toast and helped him stick all the Get Well Soon paintings his class had sent him to the fridge with magnets.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The beginning of the end happens in Florida. Or, really, the <em> end </em> of the end, because things have been stretching thinner and thinner for weeks and Harry making the trip over to see Draco that summer doesn’t act like the automatic <em> Reparo </em> charm both of them thought it would. There’s a tension from the moment Harry’s plane lands, too prone to motion-sickness to risk the long distance Portkey. All week, Harry keeps catching himself pulling away, like it’ll be easier to leave if he doesn’t let himself fall back in quite so far this time, and Draco, sensing what he’s doing, spooked, clings on all the tighter because of it.</p>
<p>Harry picks a fight on his last night because he can’t take it anymore. They never fight — on a day-to-day basis they don’t <em> talk </em>enough to have a reason to — and Harry realises he misses it, fucked up as that is. He misses all the things that you’re supposed to have in a relationship, the bickering and date nights and seeing your boyfriend’s face more than tri-annually. And once he’s realised that, well. He starts to wonder if you can even call what they’re doing a relationship.</p>
<p>He tells Draco as much, walking along Cocoa Beach in the clear, breezy night. “This isn’t— it’s not how it’s supposed to be! We talk for ten minutes every couple of months! We have sex like three times a year at <em> best</em>, because we’re never in the same country for long enough!”</p>
<p>Draco looks at him, and his eyes are hot, unyielding steel. “What do you want me to say, Harry? I’m not going to quit for you.”</p>
<p>Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know. And I wouldn’t ask you to. But this— what we’re doing— it’s not really a relationship, is it?”</p>
<p>“Well.” There’s cool silence for a moment, just the waves and the blood pounding in Harry’s head. “I thought it was, but maybe I’m wrong.”</p>
<p>And it hurts, is the thing. It’s not what Harry wants, to be having this conversation, but he has to do something, because he wants even less to keep on like this, to go back home and live on the scraps of communication that are all Draco can give him.</p>
<p>He sighs. “Look, maybe we both need some—”</p>
<p>Draco laughs humourlessly, face upturned to the dark sky above them. “If you say space I’ll hit you, Potter, I swear to God.”</p>
<p>It’s not <em> Potter </em>very often these days, and it stings, gets Harry’s back up. “Well I don’t know what you want! All I know’s I can’t keep doing this, not without literally going out of my mind.”</p>
<p>Draco meets his eye again, jaw set. “So what are you saying?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.” God, Harry wants to scream. He wants what Draco has, a way to be a thousand miles up out of the atmosphere, in the dark, uncaring void of space. He wants someone to sit him down and tell him what to do, because he has no idea. “I think we should try— a break maybe, nothing permanent—”</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Draco cuts in and he suddenly sounds exhausted, all the fight gone out of him. “It’s either working or it’s not. This is hard enough when we’re both fully committed to making an effort, it’ll cease to <em> exist </em> if we stop trying. You want some space? You said it yourself, we barely see each other as it is. Any more space and there’ll be nothing <em> left</em>. Space means we cut this off right here.”</p>
<p>Harry’s heart sinks into his feet. He’d just wanted to press pause for a while, hadn’t been expecting an ultimatum, but maybe that’s what Draco wants. All or nothing. It makes sense, really. Of course he doesn’t want to wait, hanging on whilst Harry tries to sort through the jumble of his own feelings. Who knows how long that will take, and Draco has a life to be getting on with. He doesn’t deserve that.</p>
<p>Harry nods, ignoring the parts of his body that fight against it, which is all of them. The temperature’s dropped whilst they’ve been walking and he watches Draco wrap his arms around himself, bouncing on his feet a little, wishes things were less of a mess and that he could just pull him into a hug until he’s warm again.</p>
<p>“I love you,” he says, unable to stop himself.</p>
<p>Draco blinks, a barely-there flinch, like Harry’s taken a swing at him. “I know,” he says, still oblivious to the reference, oblivious to the way his words scoop right into the meat of Harry’s stupid, hopeful heart.</p>
<p>“It’s not enough, is it?”</p>
<p>Draco shakes his head. Above, the stars watch unfeelingly on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Once, when Draco was visiting and it was summer and so hot in London that every struggling plant Harry had put on his roof to make it feel less empty had crisped up and died, they’d been mobbed trying to buy ice-cream. It didn’t happen often, probably because Harry didn’t spend a lot of time in the wizarding district anymore, hadn’t since Hogwarts, but Draco’d wanted Florean’s, so they’d gone to Diagon Alley.</p>
<p>Draco had been teasing him about the weather, basking in the dry heat of it and telling Harry he wouldn’t last two seconds in the humidity of Florida, when someone had come right up to them, stood in Harry’s path so that he had to stop walking or else barrel straight into them.</p>
<p>The man was sweet, was the problem, innocent and unassuming, old enough to be Harry’s grandfather, and all he wanted to do was thank Harry, talk to him for a moment. The war had felt like a lifetime ago, even then, a million miles away from that sun-drenched street where Draco’s hand was in his and all he had to think about was what flavour of ice-cram he was going to get, but Harry had smiled as best he could and let the stranger pat him shakily on the shoulder. He’s never thought he deserved any kind of praise for what he did as a teenager, not now and not then, but he wasn’t going to be an arse about it. He wasn’t going to tell a nice old man to leave him alone.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, stopping in the middle of the street drew attention to them. Harry didn’t even really understand how it had happened; one minute he was standing there, only a few metres away from the ice-cream parlour and the next, a crowd had formed and his hand was being wrenched out of Draco’s so someone could shake it. The downside to keeping mostly to the Muggle parts of the city was that when he came back, people got crazy, like he was some kind of rare phenomenon that everyone needed to see and talk to and poke at before it disappeared again.</p>
<p>It got so bad, the closeness of the crowd turning overwhelming so fast, that they had to leave. They bought 99s from a van in Greenwich park once they’d apparated back and Harry apologised so many times over that Draco shoved his cone into his face to shut him up, covered his nose and mouth in cold stickiness, then cleaned him off and bought him another one.</p>
<p>Later, they lay in Harry’s bed with the sheets kicked to the floor, the desk fan whirring precariously atop the bookshelf next to them, because Harry felt like he’d had any ability to maintain a cooling charm fucked right out of him by Draco’s careful hands, his hot mouth.</p>
<p>“I really am sorry,” he’d said to the ceiling, even though Draco looked like the only reason he wasn’t smothering Harry with a pillow for apologising <em> again </em> was because it was too hot for any kind of strenuous movement. Any <em> more</em>, that is. They’d been up there for hours, and Draco looked sleepy, satisfied.</p>
<p>It felt important for Harry to say, though, to make sure Draco understood. This— whatever it was between them, was hard enough without throwing Harry’s unwanted celebrity status into the mix.</p>
<p>“I know I can be— a lot to deal with,” he’d added. “Everything that comes with me, I mean.”</p>
<p>Draco frowned sideways at him, lying on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms. “I knew that already. I knew that when we were eleven, Harry.” He snorted. “And it’s not like I’m Mr. Low Maintenance myself, I have <em> some </em>self-awareness, you know—”</p>
<p>Harry screwed his face up. “Yeah, but. I don’t know.” He sighed, never able to say what he meant because he couldn’t find the right words. “Thanks, I guess. Is what I’m getting at. For still wanting to— you know. Be around me, even with all this other shit.”</p>
<p>Draco had thumped him on the arm, hard.</p>
<p>“Ow, what the hell? What was that for?”</p>
<p>“You’re an idiot.” Draco rolled over and pressed their foreheads together so hard that the bridge of Harry’s nose hurt. “You don’t have to thank me for wanting you,” he’d said into the space between them. “It’s the easiest part of my day. Every day.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry doesn’t see Draco for a year and a half. If he comes back to England at any point, he doesn’t tell Harry about it, and the weeks pile up and up until Harry loses count and only knows that it’s the longest they’ve been apart since before Hogwarts. He can’t really comprehend it. Even when they hated each other, Draco had been <em> there </em>, a reliable, if antagonistic presence in Harry’s life.</p>
<p>Still, his absence doesn’t stop the world turning. Harry’s life goes on without him: Sundays at the Burrow and school parents’ evenings and a determined avoidance of any film with a plot that’s even tenuously related to space. Harry remodels his kitchen, buys real furniture for the roof terrace, gets Neville to recommend plants that actually have a chance of surviving under his less-than-green thumb and all the while he <em> loves</em>, desperately, pointlessly, unable to turn it off.</p>
<p>It’s not until they run into each again, completely by accident  — on the tube platform at Bond Street, of all places, the chances have to be astronomically tiny — that Harry even knows if Draco’s ok or not. Nothing, for eighteen months and then suddenly, there he is on the other side of the tracks. They stare at each other, the hot wind of an approaching train blowing their hair around their faces. Harry waits with his heart in his throat as the train obscures his view for a long minute, terrified that when it pulls away again Draco will be gone with it, off to wherever he’s headed or worse, never actually there in the first place, just a figment of the secret, guarded part of Harry’s imagination that still hasn’t quite stopped waiting, hoping. It wouldn’t be the first time his brain’s turned traitor on him.</p>
<p>Draco’s there, though, when the train leaves. His face breaks into a smile that immediately makes Harry’s kneecaps want to bail and he jerks his head back at the exit behind him. Harry hurries up the stairs so fast he almost trips.</p>
<p>None of Harry’s limbs seem to know what to do when they come face to face at the top of the escalators. He knows what they <em> want </em>to do, there’s a whole list and getting Draco in his arms is only the very start of it, but he feels clumsy, uncertain. Draco, ever smooth, ever amused by Harry, laughs at him and pulls him into a hug.</p>
<p>They walk. Harry had been on the way home and he has no idea where Draco was going, but once they’re out through the ticket barriers, back up at street level, they just pick a direction and start moving. Draco tells him about work, asks about Harry’s class and his friends and his flat like— well, not like no time has passed, but like he really wants to know. Like he’s hungry for it.</p>
<p>Harry gives him the abridged version (the one where he hasn’t been secretly pining like a teenager the entire time) but when he’s finished, when Draco’s all caught up and he says, with a soft look, “Sounds like life’s pretty good, then,” Harry can’t resist pushing it, just a tiny bit.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Not bad for someone that you abandoned on a beach and never spoke to again.”</p>
<p>Draco’s mouth drops open on a shocked laugh. “Excuse me?”</p>
<p>Harry nudges at him playfully, hamming it up. “Oh you know, just had to piece my heart back together, no big deal—”</p>
<p>Draco shoves him right back, hard enough that Harry stumbles to the side, giggling like an idiot. “Oh my God,” Draco scoffs, fighting a smile. “Fuck <em> off </em> acting like the wounded party.”</p>
<p>It gives Harry pause for a second. “What?” he asks, genuinely a bit confused. “You’re the one who ended it!”</p>
<p>Draco laughs again, like he really can’t believe what Harry’s saying. “What?!” he echoes back. “How are you remembering this so wrong?”</p>
<p>It could so easily be an uncomfortable conversation, the memory of the way they left things still raw for Harry, but their tones are light, teasing, an undercurrent of familiarity warming every word. Harry’s dizzy with it, how they’re <em> laughing </em> about it, too happy to see each other again to be bitter. Or at least, that’s how he feels. Maybe that night hasn’t been weighing on Draco’s mind (heart, <em> soul</em>) like it has been on his. It’s probably easy for him to joke about it like this because he’s done what Harry hasn’t, and moved on.</p>
<p>Whatever the reason, Harry’ll take this back-and-forth any day. He’s so grateful he could cry.</p>
<p>“Honestly, Harry,” Draco’s saying, and oh, <em> ouch</em>, Harry’s really missed hearing his name like that, posh and affectionate and disparaging all at once. “As I recall, you were the one who essentially backed me into a corner with both hands tied behind my back.</p>
<p>Harry snorts at the dramatics. “I did nothing of the sort.”</p>
<p>Draco slaps at his upper arm. “Did to, you arse. I only said what I said because you were too chicken-shit to say it yourself. Not because I stopped—”</p>
<p>But he does stop, then. Cuts himself off with an expression on his face that Harry finds it hard to look directly at. They walk in silence for a minute, the mood not ruined, exactly, but a little more fragile.</p>
<p>“This is really stupid,” says Harry, because it really fucking is. “I miss you.” He means to say <em> missed </em>, past tense, but it’s the truth either way.</p>
<p>Draco ducks his head, tucks a smile into the scarf he’s wearing. “Yeah, it is,” he says after a bit. “Really very stupid.”</p>
<p>“So let’s stop being idiots,” Harry says. Any chance they had at going back to how they were (the way he really wants them to be, the way his whole body aches for) might be ruined but that doesn’t mean he can’t still have Draco in a different way. It doesn’t mean he has to have this Draco-shaped hole in his life forever.</p>
<p>“Easier said than done, for some,” Draco says, grinning.</p>
<p>Harry rolls his eyes. “Seriously.” He knocks their elbows together. “Friends? We could do friends.” He can do friends, he <em> can</em>. He can bury all the squirming, longing feelings that have been collecting dust inside of him for the better part of two years, as long as it means they stop ignoring each other. If it means Draco talking to him again, Harry’ll gladly take a hammer to his own heart.</p>
<p>Draco stares at him for a long second, eyes searching. Harry’s not sure what he’s looking for — he feels like all the love he still has is written across his face, all that useless, obvious love that has nowhere to go and ok, Draco’ll have to give him some time, cut him some slack for now, he’ll get a hold on it eventually, he <em> will </em>— but he nods after a moment.</p>
<p>“Ok,” he says. “Friends,” and they shake hands like they’ve gone back in time and eleven-year-old Harry, standing in a train compartment on the first day of school, has been given the chance to make a different decision.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As it turns out, being just friends with someone you only get to see a handful of times a year is exactly like being in love with them was, mostly, Harry suspects, because he still is. In love, that is, only now there are no more pixelated hybrid Floo/video-chat calls (he’d barely qualified for them as Draco’s boyfriend; ex-who’s-just-come-back-into-my-life-after-almost-two-years is not exactly an upgrade) and he feels guilty thinking about Draco when he’s getting off, on top of the general anger at the universe for keeping them apart that’s been there for so long it feels like a permanent fixture in Harry’s body. Nothing’s actually <em> changed</em>, except that everything has.</p>
<p>He can’t decide if not being able to talk to Draco makes it easier or not. On his end, the horrible, tender feelings stubbornly refuse to die, so maybe it’s for the best. He’s not sure that he’d be able to remember why it was a good idea for them to break it off in the first place if he saw Draco’s face. At least after that disastrous Florida visit, the radio silence had felt necessary. Now he wants to talk to Draco because friends <em> do </em>that, but he can’t.</p>
<p>Draco comes home for Teddy’s birthday that spring. It’s been over half a year, and Harry’s infinitely grateful that Andromeda thinks to mention it beforehand rather than leave Harry to be confronted with an unexpected reunion at a children’s birthday party. They’ve emailed a bit back and forth, he and Draco (Harry going out and buying a computer solely for that purpose and pretending to himself that he needed it for work), whenever Draco’s been back on base, but they never really <em> say </em> anything, the emails. They promised they’d stay friends and Harry thinks this is probably them trying to do that, but maintaining a friendship across the Atlantic ocean and a sizeable time zone difference is just as hard as trying to keep a relationship going was.</p>
<p>The party’s ok, though. Teddy’s having the time of his life and all of Harry’s favourite people are there. Draco looks good, tanned, which means he’s probably been spending more time working at the ground station than Harry thought, and it feels like a small, weighty punch to the stomach when Harry sees him and knows he can’t go over there and just— bury himself, like he wants to, but he gets past it and it’s easier, then, a little better each time, like exposure therapy.</p>
<p>They’re both on their best behaviour, mature and friendly whenever they have to interact. He slips up a few times, but only because Draco slips first, unthinkingly presses their shoulders together or turns to Harry, laughing at the kind of private joke they’re not supposed to have with each other anymore. You can’t just take those things <em> away</em>, though, that history, and Harry doesn’t think he’d want to if you could.</p>
<p>His friends, at least, are a godsend. He’s not left alone with Draco for more than a second the whole afternoon and he thinks, not for the first time, that he’d be dead without Ron and Hermione, even if on this occasion he means less of a literal death and more of an overly-dramatic, symbolic one, in which his heart simply curls up and dies if he has to watch Draco smile at him like that one more time and not be able to do anything about it. </p>
<p>Hermione is militant; Harry strongly suspects she’s organised the others. They rotate shifts like they’re on a babysitting rota, swapping out and handing him off to one another. Harry’s not annoyed, he knows that when it comes to Draco all his rational thinking goes out the window, but he’s amused that they think they’re being subtle. Every time they’re dragged away from each other, Draco shoots Harry this warm, exasperated look and Harry smiles back, helpless.</p>
<p>Even so, they manage to steal a private minute or two — Hermione has to go to the bathroom sometime, and everyone’s conveniently distracted by the cake being brought out — because Harry’s apparently a masochist with a sore, yearning spot in his brain where his self-preservation should be.</p>
<p>The sun’s still out, its lingering heat warm for April, and the light turns Draco’s hair gold.</p>
<p>“You’d think <em> we </em>were the seven-year-olds at this party,” he says, smile rueful. They’re round the corner of the house, hidden from the main garden and tucked together next to Andromeda’s compost bin. </p>
<p>Harry shrugs, watches Draco’s fingers twitch the way they do when he wants a cigarette. Harry’s roof terrace had always been littered with ash and discarded butts before he’d made himself quit. “They’re just trying to help.”</p>
<p>“I know.” He looks at Harry, then away again, as if it’s dangerous for them to hold eye contact for too long. “But it’s like they think we have no self-control.”</p>
<p>“Do you?” Harry can smell fresh grass cuttings from the bin, sugar carried on the breeze as Teddy yells something giddy, incomprehensible.</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“Have any self-control. When it comes to this, I mean, because I—”</p>
<p>Draco cuts him off. “Oh, absolutely not,” he says, and pins Harry back against the brick.</p>
<p>When Hermione finds them she doesn’t even seem surprised. There’s no telling off, just a sigh and Harry pulled away by the wrist. It makes him feel like a teenager anyway, caught out of bed after hours and sneaking into the wrong dorm, the thrill of knowing something’s a bad idea and doing it anyway hot in his chest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The year Draco gets promoted to a job with a title so long and complicated that it doesn’t even fit on the subject line of the email he sends, Harry goes to space. He’s in Florida for the first time since that night on the beach, just <em> platonically</em>, obviously, just to see his friend — Teddy’s there too, and Andromeda, which is mainly why Harry can keep telling himself that — when Draco brings it up.</p>
<p>“You could, you know,” he says, after Harry mentions offhand that he wouldn’t mind seeing what it’s like up there for himself. They’re at the Space Centre, the Muggle one, with Teddy running excitedly ahead and Draco snorting at the inaccuracies he keeps finding in the information boards. “I have way more leverage with this new position. I could pull some strings.”</p>
<p>Harry laughs. “You’re not serious?”</p>
<p>But Draco just shrugs. “If you really want. We could make it happen.”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t actually expect anything to come of it, but the next day Draco’s boss (Carter something? That’s what everyone calls him and Harry still hasn’t figured out if it’s his first or last name. Either way, he has the whitest teeth Harry’s ever seen) slaps him on the back and tells him he’s excited to have Harry on board and that’s that. Instead of leaving at the end of the week with Teddy and Andromeda, Harry stays.</p>
<p>Draco’s kept busy for the next couple of days — a<em> lot </em> of work goes into missions, even short trips like this one, and it’s not like Harry can do anything to help — so Harry has some time to lie around in Draco’s spare bedroom and think. It’s the summer holidays, it’s not like he has to be back for work, but he finds himself feeling guilty regardless. Not in a bad way, per se, just. There’s something indulgent about it all. The insane privilege of getting to go into fucking <em> space </em> aside, staying here past when he should, alone with Draco, feels inadvisably hedonistic. It’s the same feeling he’d had when Draco kissed him at Teddy’s birthday (and that was the last time, over two years ago now, they’ve been very good, and Harry only thinks about it oh, every other night), that potent, selfish joy of breaking the rules, just a little. </p>
<p>The day of, Draco’s antsy, his energy high and restless. He goes into work before Harry’s even out of bed and they meet at reception once Harry’s had some breakfast and thrown some clothes into a bag. What exactly one brings to space, Harry has no idea, but he steals a couple of jumpers out of Draco’s room, assuming the t-shirts and shorts he packed for the Florida heat won’t cut it.</p>
<p>“This is only happening because you’re you,” Draco says to him, taking his bag like Harry’s incapable of carrying it. He’s flustered, grumpy, but in the exaggerated way that means he’s not actually angry.</p>
<p>Harry bites hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling and feels the balloon of his chest swell. “I thought you said my name meant nothing over here.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t. I meant— whatever.” </p>
<p>He turns and heads off down a long corridor, leaving Harry to follow along behind.</p>
<p>Harry’s never been this far inside the place that Draco works before. Every other time he was here, it was to watch Draco leave for another six months, not to follow him through doors that have to be opened with an identification badge and a fiddly wand movement. The long hallways and warren-like rooms remind him of old spy films, and the further in they get, the more Harry gets the impression that actually this — Harry being here in the first place — is only happening because Draco is <em> Draco. </em></p>
<p>He’s right that the name<em> Harry Potter </em>doesn’t really mean much to anyone outside of the UK, parts of Europe maybe, at a stretch, but Draco seems to be sort of a— big deal here. Harry thinks he knew that, in an abstract sense, knew that hardly anyone makes it through the years of training to qualify for actual flight, but it’s very obvious now he’s actually here. Everyone they pass greets Draco by name, a couple of younger witches and wizards even seeming vaguely star-struck when Draco nods at them. The most Harry gets is a couple of half-curious looks.</p>
<p>He makes himself pay attention during the briefing, which goes very well until it’s Draco’s turn to talk and he commands the attention of the room easily, calm and clever and authoritative. It’s almost unbearably sexy, so maybe Harry’s gets a tiny bit distracted, but he doesn’t think he’s missed anything too important when he zones back in, and well, if he has, Draco’ll be there to call him an idiot when he messes up.</p>
<p>It doesn’t really sink in that this is happening until Harry’s face to face with the rocket and then he remembers to be excited, the sensation hitting him all at once so that he has to bite back a laugh at the sheer wonder of the moment.</p>
<p>Draco, climbing in ahead, turns back to him, smiles when he sees the look on Harry’s face, expression clearing until he looks ten years younger, just as excited as if this were novel to him, too, and not just an everyday part of his nine to five.</p>
<p>“I know,” he says, simply, and offers a hand to pull Harry up and into the craft, the two of them, for the first time, on the same side of the sleek metal walls that have been separating them over and over for years.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is, of course, insane. Harry thinks he could spend as much time up here as Draco has and still not be used to it. The fact that Draco gets <em> paid </em>to do this, for months on end...</p>
<p>Maybe it’s the kind of thing you don’t ever get used to, though, or maybe Harry’s enthusiasm is infectious, because Draco’s in his element. He’s not really needed for the work that the rest of the crew are doing — some kind of satellite repair, from what Harry’s been able to figure out, and Draco works more in the research and calculation side of things — so he’s free to show Harry around.</p>
<p>Harry has to admit he assumed Draco had been living in the kind of cramped conditions that Muggle astronauts did, all this time, but the rocket that launched them out of the atmosphere had taken them to a much bigger shuttle, practically a spaceship, significantly more Star-Trek-ian than Harry would have guessed. Magic has its advantages, he supposes. It’s a bit like living on a small cruise ship that someone’s part-converted into a high-tech hospital.</p>
<p>Harry gets the full tour, sees the labs, the bridge, the area where they’re growing food under carefully controlled charms (he thinks of Neville), even the engine room (he thinks of Hermione, threatening to confiscate his <em> Wrath of Khan </em>VHS). They eat together in the dining hall that feels like being back at school, everyone jumbled together across long tables, and people are friendly, happy to indulge Harry, answer his questions and explain what they’re working on. He feels almost sick with pride anytime anyone tells him how great Draco is, how he’s the real genius around here, like Harry has anything to do with that. He’s pretty sure everyone assumes they’re still together, but neither of them corrects otherwise.</p>
<p>Then, a couple of days in, they hit some turbulence. Harry calls it that, because it’s the only thing he can compare it to, but in reality it’s much worse than anything he’s experienced on a plane, worse even than the nausea-inducing motion of lift-off had been. The shuttle has layers and layers of intricate charms built into it, regulating the oxygen and gravity and stability, but things are still rough for an hour or two and Harry ends up in the tiny bathroom off of Draco’s private bedroom, apologising in between bouts of emptying his stomach. Draco tells him gently not to be stupid, and sits there with him, the room so tiny that they’re squashed together, Draco’s head knocking into the sink.</p>
<p>It feels inevitable when, after he’s finished three glasses of water and brushed his teeth, Harry kisses Draco, thinking of Felix Walton and stomach flu and parallels, reflecting back over the years. Draco kisses him back with an abandonment bordering on total surrender, and pulls them into his bedroom.</p>
<p>“Do you think we’re the first people to do this in space?” Harry asks a little while later, voice snagging at the end when Draco slips a wet finger into him. They’re using real lube, from a bottle stashed under Draco’s bed, because magic’s so temperamental up here that every spell is monitored and catalogued by the maintenance team. Not that Harry’s bothered about anyone figuring out what they’re up to, it’s just— strictly speaking, they’re only supposed to cast when it’s absolutely necessary and he doesn’t think this qualifies.</p>
<p>It <em> feels </em>necessary when Draco works him open, though. Feels pretty vital.</p>
<p>“There’ve been wizards in space since the sixties, we’re definitely not the first,” Draco says in answer to his question. “Pretty sure Carter’s son was <em> conceived </em>up here.”</p>
<p>Harry huffs a noise, not quite a laugh, and Draco chases it, kissing the tail-end of it out of his mouth. He’s going very slowly, maybe because stretching Harry out magically isn’t an option, maybe because he assumes it’s been a while (it has; Harry hasn’t let anyone touch him for a long, long time). Maybe he just likes it as much as Harry does.</p>
<p>Harry stares out of the window above the bed, head tilted all the way back into the pillow as Draco gets another finger in. The glass is charmed like at the Ministry back home, with a little side panel of options for different views — mountains, forests, fields (“Because they’re genuinely scared we’ll go barmy, cooped up here, if we forget what a tree looks like,” Draco had explained) — but right now the spell’s inactive and all Harry can see are stars.</p>
<p>Draco presses his mouth to Harry’s jaw until Harry drops his chin again so that Draco can kiss him properly. He likes this position, likes being able to kiss Harry whilst he gets him ready. Harry wishes he could say he’d forgotten that in the years since they were last together like this, that Draco’s impatient nip at the skin of his throat, probably intended as a reminder, was necessary, but it’s not. Some nights, lying alone in his bed in Greenwich, he’d thought of nothing else.</p>
<p>“Missed you,” Draco says later still, the words smeared into Harry’s cheek as he shifts his hips, changes the angle.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Harry breathes, no brain function left for anything more. “Yeah.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>///</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry sees the moon, up close. They’re on a detour, Draco says, because of some unexpected asteroid debris that they need to avoid, and it means they might have to delay a couple more days until they can circle back around to Earth. Harry’s not complaining.</p>
<p>The thick window of the observation deck spans the whole length of the room. Draco pulled him up here when neither of them could sleep — time is weird here; Harry finds it hard to stick to a routine without the regular rising and setting of the sun — so no-one else is around, the space cool and quiet, the two of them sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the glass like kids in an aquarium.</p>
<p>“You’re not even <em> looking </em>at it,” Harry says, feeling Draco’s gaze on the side of his face as he stares, captivated, at the pale, craterous surface. He wants to press his nose to the glass, tattoo the image onto his brain.</p>
<p>Draco laughs, soft, his breath misting the window for a split-second before it fades. “I’ve seen it a hundred times.”</p>
<p>Harry flicks a glance at him. “You’ve seen <em> this </em>a hundred times,” he says, gesturing at his own face.</p>
<p>“And still not nearly enough,” Draco says, unabashed, and Harry doesn’t tease him for it, even when he presses a tiny kiss to Harry’s cheek, even when he links their hands together, pulls Harry’s into his lap and thumbs at his palm.</p>
<p>Harry had been wrong, about what it’s like out here. There’s darkness, obviously, but there’s also so much light, this bright, white-hot light splashed everywhere, all across the black, and there’s Draco, separated from him by mere centimetres, instead of miles.</p>
<p>It doesn’t feel like somewhere to run away to, the unforgiving emptiness he’d thought it was, an echo chamber for the frustrations he’d wanted to hurl fruitlessly at the universe. It feels like a gift, like the kind of escape that’s only good because you know you can go back home again, when you’re ready.</p>
<p>It feels, in the best way, like falling.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>happy birthday to me i guess? hope you're all doing ok, thanks, as always, for reading and leave a comment if you want etc etc</p>
<p>i also have a <a href="https://forestgreenlesbian.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> if anyone's interested. i've seen people giving my other fics some love over there so i'd thought i'd link it. it's not an hp blog, but there it is, if you want to come say hi! xxx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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